


The Pain of Birth is Known Only to a Select Few

by Starcruiserc



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, Elias Bouchard is a Jerk, I accept constructive criticism though!, I don't know how to write summaries so y'all just get an excerpt, In fact I welcome it!, M/M, The Beholding Sucks, The End is Scary, The Lonely is Scary, please be kind, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starcruiserc/pseuds/Starcruiserc
Summary: Tim awoke in fits and spurts. Every part of him tugged at all the others, pulling him in an infinite myriad of directions, almost as if his body didn't know quite how it was supposed to fit together. Two portions won out over the rest, their gravity more potent. His eyes felt as if they would leap from his skull, and his right hand stretched toward the deepest portions of this sea of nothingness. A feeling of need washed over Tim, yet he couldn't assemble his mind into coherent thought to comprehend what it is he might crave so deeply. Flashes of images engulfed the nothing, before fading back into a color which did not exist, yet imprinted itself upon Tim's fragile thoughts.Or: Tim wakes up.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19
Collections: Tim Stoker Appreciation Week





	The Pain of Birth is Known Only to a Select Few

Tim awoke in fits and spurts. Every part of him tugged at all the others, pulling him in an infinite myriad of directions, almost as if his body didn't know quite how it was supposed to fit together. Two portions won out over the rest, their gravity more potent. His eyes felt as if they would leap from his skull, and his right hand stretched toward the deepest portions of this sea of nothingness. A feeling of need washed over Tim, yet he couldn't assemble his mind into coherent thought to comprehend what it is he might crave so deeply. Flashes of images engulfed the nothing, before fading back into a color which did not exist, yet imprinted itself upon Tim's fragile thoughts.

The longer he spent suspended in the void the more lucid his comprehension grew, yet it was evident that it was much less of a mercy that it had at first seemed. As Tim floated, he didn't feel time passing, he didn't know how long it took him to realize that he could remember every moment he had been here so vividly that he experienced it as if it was happening concurrently with his ongoing perception. His experimentation with this new reality of his soon proved to be the only bastion against boredom, as movement was far too limited due to his eyes and his hand being stretched uncomfortably.

Eventually, Tim's trials resulted in something new, allowing him to observe something which had not occurred, a snapshot of him floating, before a flash of terrible light engulfed him searing away the nonreality he resided in with a promise of eventual return. This shook Tim, and it took many tries to work up the resolve to try again, to see that image once more, and feel something _new_. When he strained his mind, his eyes tugged painfully outwards in a manner unknown before, and Tim felt his existence _shift_ towards that which his eyes were attracted to, and away from his hand's wishes. The harder he pushed to see, the further he pulled, and tiny glimmers of light began to swim before him. Tim ignored these in favor of pushing further, the need in him finally given name, his very soul demanded to see, to give watch to his pitiful non-existence in this godforsaken not-place.

Though he caught snippets of that glorious novel image, something held him back, keeping Tim from fully bearing witness to a something, as opposed to the Nothing. The tiniest voice whispering that even if that moment is new, it has no fundamental difference to all the others he has here, so why should he stretch and strain so much for a nothing which bears no true novelty? This dissuaded him for a moment, perhaps many, perhaps just one, until that burning need engulfed him once more, and he pushed with all his might and thrust his hand forward in front of his face. The motes of light slowly become extant, one by one, growing brighter and brighter, before ripping away the Nothingness which cried out in the sweet agony of existence within reality. Then, finally, Tim saw something new, a blackness, which he slowly fell into, deep within the familiar embrace of sleep.

Tim is brought slowly from sleep by a voice, a very familiar voice, one which sounds of knit sweaters, warm cups of tea, and glorious stress-melting hugs. Martin spoke with a slow sort of resignation, full of regret and sorrow, "You did it, you know... The Unknowing is gone, Nikola Orsinov too, if our luck holds..." Tim struggled to move, to open his eyes and ask Martin what was wrong. "You'd like the service we planned, it's small, but we found Elias' checkbook before we had him taken away, so we decided it would serve your memory best to make it as expensive as possible." Tim's mind swirled, as he pushed harder and harder to open his eyes _Service, what service? Why are you talking like I'm dead? Am I in a coma?! Is that why I can't move!? M_ artin sighed, "I wish you were here to help us, someone took Elias' place and I _don't_ trust him, Jon is in a coma, I don't know if that's better or worse than if he had ended up like you... I'm alone. You and Jon were all I had, I don't know if you knew, but I loved you two, I just wish our relationship had had a chance to be woven before you fell away from us all."

At that, Tim finally gathered his strength to push his eyes open a crack, fighting to give comfort to the broken sounding man who had given him his first new sensation after that horrific experience. What he saw shook him to his core, tears fell openly from Martin's eyes, and small wisps of mist wreathed his head like a halo, he wore a black tuxedo, and in his hands a cardstock square was clutched tightly, embossed in elaborate gold letter stating a date, time, and address: August 14th, 10:30 AM, London Funeral Home. Below the address, a simple message dug cold claws into Tim's heart, "We cordially invite you to remember our dearly departed friend, Timothy Stoker."

Tim screamed. Later he would deny ever doing as such, instead weaving a story of calmly and suavely wiping the tears from Martin's face, but he and Martin know what really happened. Martin gave an unholy shriek and tumbled backward. Tim sat up, strength returning to him moment by moment as his eyes drank in sight, his lungs filling once more with air, and his heart starting to pump. After a second, a glorious fresh moment in time, he heard something, a whimpering sob which came from a corner of the room. Looking over, Tim saw Martin quivering, his hands over his face, and muttering "Nononononono, I can't deal with them taking you, they can't take your memory away from me like this, _please_ no!" Tim stiffly got out of the coffin he lay in and stumbled over to Martin, gently taking his hands in Tim's, "Martin, it's me, please look at me, I need you to look at me." Martin slowly allowed Tim to lower his hands, and Tim smiled, "It's me."


End file.
